


love sent to me

by hollow_dweller



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Everyone else knows what's up, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Knight David, M/M, Novice Diarmuid, Romance, Secret Admirer, also featuring some potentially blasphemous co-opting of bible passages to fit my gay agenda, hand-wavy vaguely medieval and entirely ahistorical setting, i didn't set out to write a medieval sugar daddy fic but here we are, it's only a secret to Diarmuid though lbr, the monk squad are part gently bullying older brothers part fairy godmothers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:28:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28345416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollow_dweller/pseuds/hollow_dweller
Summary: It is the arm cuff, however, that finally breaks Diarmuid’s resolve not to respond to his brothers’ teasing over the situation.“Are you not concerned that there is someone out there who I have never spoken to, and who wants- who has some kind of interest in me, but will not say it?” he cries, exasperated by his brothers’ blithe response to this whole infuriating mystery.Rua raises a single eyebrow at him, reaching out to tap the cuff where it sits on Diarmuid’s wrist. “What, does this not speak to their interest clearly enough for you?”*Or, the twelve days of christmas, Diarmute style.
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Comments: 11
Kudos: 32
Collections: Diarmute Secret Santa 2020





	love sent to me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [justme123](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justme123/gifts).



> Cat!! you asked for medieval courtly love with Knight David trying to win Diarmuid's hand, and i had SO MUCH FUN with this prompt. i hope you like it, and the merriest of christmases to you. <3 <3 <3

Diarmuid finds the first gift when he is sweeping the chapel on a cold winter morning, just two weeks shy of midwinter. 

It is bound in plain, finely woven cloth, undyed and modest. The ribbon that binds it, however, is expensive, dyed a brilliant crimson, threaded through with gold such that it appears to shimmer in the flickering light of the chapel’s torches. Diarmuid picks it up carefully, bemused, and stands for a long moment with it in hand, brushing reverent fingers over the soft fabric. 

Diarmuid has lived his entire life adjacent to the court, but the asceticism in which he was raised meant he has never owned more than the bare minimum for garments--his robes, a plain but functional cloak, tunic and breeches and loincloth. Never left wanting, of course--he has always been fortunate in how well his brothers have cared for him, from the day he was left on the chapel steps as an infant--but hardly immersed in luxury or excess. 

The fabric of the ribbon is the richest, the most sumptuous, that Diarmuid has ever had the good fortune to touch. He cannot imagine what might have prompted someone to leave a gift here, but whatever it is, it must be expensive, to warrant such extravagant binding. 

After turning the thing over in his hands for several long moments, considering, he reluctantly sets it down. With a sigh, he returns to his chores, pushing aside the nagging curiosity that tugs at the back of his mind. 

*

Once his chores are complete, he carries the package back to the monks’ little cottage, situated near the edge of the castle grounds, a short walk from the chapel. 

The others are only just stirring as he returns. As the youngest, and the only novice among them, the least savoury of the daily chores tend to fall to him--mucking the animal pens, waking before dawn to tend to the chapel before first mass, the like. 

“Someone left us a midwinter gift,” he says, shaking snow off his boots and hanging his cloak on its hook by the door. He moves into the warmth of the kitchen and sets the package on the table before Ciaran. “I did not open it, but the wrapping is lovely.” 

Ciaran frowns slightly, running a finger over the ribbon, much as Diarmuid had. Rua and Cathal lean forward, roused from their early morning grogginess by the promise of intrigue. Diarmuid pulls up the final chair, accepting the mug of tea that Rua slides his way with a nod of thanks, and turns his attention to the gift in Ciaran’s hands. 

Ciaran wastes no time in opening the thing, carefully untying the ribbon and setting it aside. Diarmuid wonders briefly about asking to keep it--if the others have no use for it, they probably will let him. It seems a shame to let something so beautiful be discarded. 

The gift, it turns out, is a book. 

Or rather, a journal. Extremely high quality, with supple sheets of parchment scraped thin and uniformly even, bound in soft leather. It is probably the finest quality journal any of them have owned--certainly it is the finest Diarmuid has seen. The gift is a unique one, and appropriate. As monks, educated as both scribes and illuminators, they are among the few who might have use for such a thing. 

It is a shame that there is only one. By all rights, as the most senior among them, the gift belongs to Ciaran. Diarmuid thinks rather ruefully that he will have to continue to be satisfied with sheaves of loose parchment; if Ciaran opts not to keep the journal for himself, surely Cathal or Rua will claim it. 

But Ciaran is still frowning, turning the thing over in his hands. He pauses, staring at the spine for a long moment, eyebrows drawing up his forehead in surprise. Finally he looks up, holding the thing out so they can all see what he found. 

Diarmuid sucks in a breath between his teeth, startled. There, stamped into the leather of the spine, is his name. 

The gift is for _him_. 

*

Diarmuid is out the back of the cottage, pouring oats into a trough for Ginger--the monks’ sole, aging mare--when he hears the sound of hooves beating against the packed snow of the path that leads from the chapel to the cottage. He sets his bucket of feed down--away from the fence, so that Ginger can not reach over and gorge herself, as she has been known to do in the past--and rounds the outside of their stone dwelling, steps cautious. They do not get many visitors, not to their personal quarters, but being in charge of the castle’s chapel means that a guest could be anyone, from a footman to a noble. It is best to be cautious. 

He rounds the corner, and a man comes into view, dismounting from what is unmistakably a war horse, for all that it bears only plain leather tack. The man--the knight--is similarly plainly dressed, in breeches and sturdy leather boots, a warm-looking coat made of thickly-quilted material--better for riding than a cloak--on in deference to the chill December air. 

Then he turns, and Diarmuid catches sight of a familiar mane of brown curls, a neatly-trimmed beard, and warm brown eyes. 

“David!” he cries, and breaks into a run. 

He pulls up short just a few paces away, leaning forward on the balls of his feet, face stretched into what he knows must be an almost absurdly wide smile. He feels a little absurd, truthfully, in his eagerness--David has been away with his company for nearly two months, and Diarmuid had resigned himself to not seeing his friend again until the spring. 

David smiles back, just a quick glimmer of a thing, but Diarmuid knows him well enough to know that he is pleased to see him. 

“I had thought you and your men were to remain in the south for the winter,” he says. “I heard nothing from the castle guard of the return of your company.” 

David shakes his head, hand coming up to tap himself on the chest. 

“You came alone?” he asks, unable to keep the surprise from his tone.

David is perhaps an odd choice for a commander, given that he does not speak, but Diarmuid has observed him training with his men enough times to know that he is a good one, the loyalty between him and his men unshakeable. 

Winters are quiet throughout the realm, and the kingdom has enjoyed an almost unprecedented period of peace since the defeat of the warmongering kingdom Demerville five years prior, but it is still difficult to imagine David agreeing to leave his post for most of a season. He may have made the journey north in the winter on his own, but certainly he will not be able to return south until the mountain passes clear in a few months. 

Diarmuid cannot imagine what might have compelled him to return to the castle, that he would consent to be separated from his men for so long. 

“Did Her Majesty summon you?” he asks, unbearably curious and a little concerned. David, for all that he has always been kindly informal with Diarmuid, is a powerful noble. There are plausible reasons that Diarmuid can think of for him having returned to court with such haste, but few of them are good. 

But David shakes his head, another smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. This one looks a little rueful, and Diarmuid cocks his head to the side, confused. 

“I hope that you are not saying you returned for the midwinter _ball_ ,” he teases. As if something so trivial could tear David away from his work. David shakes his head, eyes sparkling with good humour, sharing in the joke. 

“Well, if that is not the reason, are you going to explain it to me then?” Diarmuid asks, feeling a little impatient with David’s evasiveness and letting it bleed into his tone. 

David’s answering grin is wider, playful, and he simply shrugs. 

Diarmuid huffs, amused despite himself, then nods toward the back of their cottage. “Would you like to pen Lightfoot with Ginger? We can have some supper and you can continue to not explain what you are doing here. The mince pies are fresh.” 

Spotting the sudden and badly-hidden apprehension on David’s face, Diarmuid huffs again, turning to lead the way back to the pen. “No need to be frightened--Cathal made them. Ciaran and I had nothing to do with it; we have learned our lesson, thank you.” 

He hears a snort of amusement from behind him, and represses his own urge to grin. He is not sure what has brought David back to- to the castle, but it feels a little like a midwinter gift all the same. 

*

“And of course I have no earthly idea who might have left me such a thing. Cathal thought perhaps it was a gift in celebration of me finally taking my vows? It is the right sort of thing for a monk, but that is hardly something most people would think to give gifts for.” 

He shrugs, pushing around the last of his mince pie with his knife. “It is a baffling thing, for certain.” 

He looks up from the last scraps of his supper, to see that David is curiously blank-faced. He is hardly the most expressive of men, but in five years of friendship Diarmuid has come to learn him well. It is rare that David is closed off to him, but in this moment he cannot tell what he is thinking. 

Before he can ask, the door opens, and Ciaran walks in accompanied by a blast of cool winter air and a flurry of snowflakes. 

“It is nightmarish out there,” he complains gruffly, brushing snowflakes from his shoulders. “Any more of this and we will not be able to make it even to the chapel for mass--oh, Sir David!” 

David stands and nods, clasping hands briefly with Ciaran in friendly greeting. 

Ciaran looks David over, something odd in his expression. “When did you return, my lord?” 

David glances over at Diarmuid. 

“Late last evening, I imagine?” Diarmuid replies. “Or early this morning.” 

David smiles in thanks, looking back to Ciaran. 

Ciaran nods, slowly, a strange little smile creeping onto his face. “Is Diarmuid telling you about his admirer, then?” 

“Admirer!” Diarmuid scoffs, amused at the notion. “I thought we agreed it was probably someone congratulating me on taking my vows.” 

Ciaran’s eyes flicker over to Diarmuid, then back to David. “That was the thought, but it occurs to me that there are…alternate explanations. It _is_ midwinter, after all. The customary time for lovers to gift one another with tokens of their affection.”

“Ciaran!” Diarmuid squawks, scandalized. “I do not have a _lover_.”

That makes Ciaran look over at him, now grinning fully. “Of course not, Diarmuid. But that does not preclude anyone from having developed an affection for _you._ Maybe this is their way of… saying that.” 

Before Diarmuid, still spluttering, can reply--or perhaps crawl into a hole and perish, as he somewhat wishes to, having this conversation in front of David, of all people--the door opens again, admitting a rather miserable-looking Cathal and Rua. 

There is another round of exclamations, first over the weather, then over David’s presence. To Diarmuid’s relief, their arrival provides enough of a distraction that Ciaran drops the subject of his absurd admirer theory altogether. 

Trust Ciaran to find some way to tease him over something as innocuous as a nice gift. 

*

The next morning, Diarmuid finds another gift, again wrapped in plain cloth and beautiful, expensive ribbon. It is left once more in the chapel, and for the first time it occurs to Diarmuid that if these gifts are intended for him, specifically, then whoever it is must know that he is the one who prepares the chapel every morning. 

He waits to open the gift until he has returned to the cottage, on the off chance that this time it is intended for one of the others. 

Perhaps predictably, that does not turn out to be the case. 

It is a companion to the previous day’s journal, an array of brightly-coloured inks and swan-feather quills, a small fortune in writing implements. This time there is a note, but all it says is _For Diarmuid_ in the loopy, elegant script used by the castle’s trained scribes. It narrows down the giver only slightly--anyone who lives or works at the castle would be able to commission a scribe to write them a note such as this.

Given that that description matches just about every person Diarmuid knows, it is hardly helpful as a clue. 

Ciaran takes the opportunity provided by the gift to share his admirer theory with Cathal and Rua. Diarmuid is expecting them to laugh, to immediately begin teasing him, and after a moment they do, all amused smiles and over-the-top admonishments about his “secret lover”. 

But first there is a pause, a lull in conversation, after Ciaran voices his theory. It goes on long enough that Diarmuid raises his head from where he had buried it in his hands in exasperation, to find that his brothers engaged in a silent conversation, all three exchanging strange, indecipherable looks across the table. 

*

With every new morning comes a new gift, practical and frivolous alike, but all of a quality Diarmuid rarely comes by. 

First it is boots, made of supple leather and stamped with an intricate pattern of ivy. No note to accompany them, but there is no question who they are intended for--when Diarmuid slips them on, helpless against the delighted urging of his brothers, they fit perfectly. 

The following day sees Diarmuid sharing a box of confectionaries with the other three, currant tarts and almond cakes and whisper-thin wafers of chocolate patterned like snowflakes, decadent and indulgent and unlike anything Diarmuid has ever tasted. 

Then it is a clay pot full of sweet-smelling lotion, to ease the pain of skin chapped by the winter cold; a set of beautifully carved ivory combs, wide-toothed in deference to Diarmuid’s thick curls; a belt-knife with an unmarked wooden handle and a blade so fine it cuts a strand of hair, when Diarmuid sets it against the edge; a sturdy oak trunk that Diarmuid ends up needing Cathal and Rua’s help carrying back to his quarters; a pair of fur-lined gloves that keep his hands warm even when he ventures into the forest for hours, foraging for hawthorne and juniper at Ciaran’s behest; a cloak of tightly woven wool, dyed a blue so dark it is almost black, and lined with silk. 

It is the arm cuff, however, that finally breaks Diarmuid’s resolve not to respond to his brothers’ teasing over the situation. 

“Are you not concerned that there is someone out there who I have never spoken to, and who wants- who has some kind of _interest_ in me, but will not say it?” he cries, exasperated by his brothers’ blithe response to this whole infuriating mystery. 

Rua raises a single eyebrow at him, reaching out to tap the cuff where it sits on Diarmuid’s wrist. “What, does this not speak to their interest clearly enough for you?” 

Of course it does--of _course_ it does. Even Diarmuid cannot pretend the thing is not the token of an admirer. Cast in silver and inlaid with mother-of-pearl, it is the single most expensive thing Diarmuid has ever held in his two hands, perfectly sized so that it lays over his wrist snugly, exquisite and luxurious and absolutely not anything Diarmuid--or any monk--has any use for. 

“I am taking my vows _tomorrow evening_ ,” he says, pulling the thing off his wrist and ignoring the part of him that wilts in the process, squashing his own disappointment that he will have no choice but to refuse the beautiful, frivolous gift. “What use does a monk have for jewellery?” 

The others exchange looks, various levels of amusement written on their faces. Ciaran takes the cuff from Diarmuid, turning it slowly over in his hands and admiring the way it catches the mid-morning light streaming in through the window. He looks back up with a smirk. “I am certain you will figure something out, Diarmuid. You are awfully resourceful.” 

Diarmuid snatches it back, scowling as his brothers laugh and ducking away as Ciaran reaches out to ruffle his hair. 

“Right then, speaking of,” Ciaran says, voice suddenly brisk. “Can you go into town and pay a visit to the bookseller for me? I need more parchment and ink, and as some of us do not have mysterious benefactors-”

He breaks off as Rua and Cathal laugh, smiling pleasantly in response when Diarmuid calls him a rude word. Diarmuid makes a show of stomping over to the door to pull on his outerthings, grumbling under his breath about traitors to a sacred brotherhood as he snatches up his carrying-basket. Maybe he should see if David will go with him into town--at least he will not spend the entire trip teasing Diarmuid. 

Before he can leave, Ciaran speaks again, in a tone that Diarmuid would call casual, if he did not know him so well. “You should ask Sir David to accompany you. After all, you never know what rogues you might encounter, out there on the road. Good to have a knight on hand, just in case.”

“It is not that far,” Diarmuid says automatically, not wanting to let on that he had been contemplating exactly that. He suspects that doing so would only prompt the others to laugh at him more. “Only about a half hour’s walk. Besides, David is a busy man.”

“Of course,” Rua chimes in drily. “So busy that he has found time to visit you at least once a day, ever since he returned.” 

Diarmuid flushes. The point is fair, but it is not as though David visiting him with such frequency is altogether that rare. When David’s company is not on the road, patrolling the kingdom, it is his and David’s custom to have a visit every day they can. It has always been that way. 

“I can see if he is available,” he says, reluctant to admit that Rua is correct. 

“I am sure he will _find_ a way to make himself available,” Cathal replies, amused. 

Diarmuid opts not to respond to _that_ , fleeing his brothers’ teasing with whatever scraps of dignity he has remaining to him. 

*

David _is_ available, as a matter of fact, though Diarmuid is certain he must not have been engaged with anything important before he showed up on his doorstep. Whatever the others may say, David would not abandon his responsibilities just to spend time with Diarmuid. 

The walk is pleasant, the first clear sky they have had in days allowing the sun to shine down, light bouncing off the fresh snow, as though the entire landscape has been blanketed in glittering jewels. 

It is cold, of course, but Diarmuid does not feel it, bundled as he is in his new gloves, boots, and cloak. David had looked pleased when he had seen the garments; probably glad that he would not have to haul a freezing and frostbitten Diarmuid back to Ciaran. 

Diarmuid fills the silence between them, catching David up on the goings-on of the monks, speculating about recent gossip Diarmuid had coaxed from some of the castle guards, musing idly about which sermon Ciaran might choose to give in two days, to welcome the return of the sun after the longest night of the year. 

He does not discuss the day’s gift--he has found he prefers to speak of them as little as possible, unnerved by the carefully blank look he receives from David every time he brings it up. He does not want to know what David’s response might be to the cuff, nor to the clear declaration of intent that accompanies it. 

Besides, Diarmuid is going to find a way to return the cuff. No point in dithering about it to David, who is unlikely to be interested in such frippery, anyway. 

*

After Diarmuid purchases the supplies Ciaran requested, they wander the little midwinter market that has been erected in the town’s central square. Artisans of all kinds have set up shop, eager to sell their wares, rows upon rows of clothiers and artists and foodmongers. 

David buys them both steaming cups of cider that they sip as they walk, and Diarmuid savours the lingering sweetness on his tongue, the warmth of the steam against his exposed nose and cheeks. David even carries his basket, bowing slightly as he pulls it from Diarmuid’s unresisting hands, lips twitching into a smile as Diarmuid laughingly accuses him of misdirecting his chivalry. Unencumbered, he flits into booths as he pleases, enjoying the freedom to browse the dizzying assortment of goods on display, drawing their sellers into easy conversation, the details of which he eagerly recounts to David during their walk home.

By the time they return to the castle, Diarmuid is filled with a sort of exhausted elation, carrying the energy of being surrounded by so many interesting people and sights under his ribs, along his spine. David holds Diarmuid’s basket--not surrendered once they left the market--in one hand. The other rests low on Diarmuid’s back, guiding him along the path to the cottage. It is getting dark, the sun sinking fast below the trees to the west, and Diarmuid is grateful for David’s attentiveness. He is not certain he has the wherewithal to watch for obstacles blocking their path, tired as he is, and he entirely credits David with his ability to make it to his front step without falling into a snowbank. 

He tells David so, relishing the huff of laughter it earns him, a sort of fizzing, bubbling affection rising in his throat as he looks up at him. David looks back, face falling into a gentle smile. 

His hand is still on Diarmuid’s back, and Diarmuid imagines he can feel the warmth of his body even through the thick fabric of his cloak. The silence stretches out between them as they watch one another, warm and comfortable as an old robe. 

“Thank you,” Diarmuid says eventually, murmuring so as to not disturb the atmosphere between them. “For accompanying me today. It was- I had a good time.” 

David nods, eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that Diarmuid never gets tired of seeing. 

“I missed you, you know,” he says, propelled suddenly by an impulse he cannot put a name to. David blinks, clearly startled, but Diarmuid barrels on. “You were gone for such a long time, and I- I am glad you came back, even if you will not tell me why. Spring… spring feels very far away.” 

David nods, a knowing look in his eyes, as though he understands what Diarmuid is trying so inelegantly to say, his stumbling words as inadequate as they are. 

Then again, he and David have never needed words to understand one another. 

He lifts a hand and grazes his knuckles, ever so gently, down Diarmuid’s cheek. Diarmuid does not move, feeling suddenly dizzy, as though for a moment he forgot how to breathe. 

After a long, long moment, David nods again, and steps away. He presses the basket into Diarmuid’s hands, patiently waiting until Diarmuid catches on to his intentions and takes it back. It feels heavier than it ought, in this moment, like it is weighed down with more than just parchment and ink bottles. 

Then David turns and walks away, back toward the castle. Diarmuid watches him go until he is a speck in the distance, swallowed up by the darkness of the night. 

*

Midwinter dawns bright and cold, with no gift in the chapel for Diarmuid. 

He is not certain how he feels about that. A part of him is almost disappointed, though he immediately feels ashamed. He has been showered with a small fortune’s worth of gifts, every day for nearly two weeks. It is unspeakably greedy of him to expect anything more, midwinter or no. 

Another part of him is relieved. He still does not know how he is to return the previous day’s gift, still does not know who is behind all of this. Better that the person gave up, after all this time. Better that he does not have to let them down. 

*

Ciaran is placing a pot of water over the fire to boil, probably for tea, when Diarmuid returns to the cottage. 

He had already been abed when Diarmuid had returned the night before, so he had not had the opportunity then to pass along the parchment and ink he had been sent to purchase. He stoops to grab the basket from its spot next to the door, flipping open the top to retrieve his purchases. 

Instead, he finds a small package, wrapped in plain cloth and bound with bright crimson ribbon. 

He nearly drops the basket, he is so startled. 

He manages to save it, hands shaking so badly he can hear the bottles of ink clink and clatter as they knock together, and quickly moves to set it down on the table. 

He picks up the package, then, feeling shaken down to his core. How on _earth_ did it end up in his basket from the market? It feels impossible that someone should have slipped it in, with Diarmuid completely unawares. It _is_ impossible that someone might have managed it without David noticing, unless-

Diarmuid stares down at the small package in his hands, suddenly feeling very, very stupid. 

“Open it,” Ciaran says quietly, startling Diarmuid once more. He had entirely forgotten Ciaran was there, watching him, eyes serious and thoughtful, for once not a trace of mirth in his features. 

He does, tugging at the ribbon with careful fingers, peeling back the cloth until his final midwinter gift is revealed: a book of psalms. 

It is small, barely larger than Diarmuid’s palm, with a plain brown cover. Diarmuid can see that there is another piece of red ribbon sticking out from between the pages. 

Heart in his throat, Diarmuid flips open the book to the page that is marked. The lettering is neat and compact, easy to read despite its size. 

_I love the Lord, for he heard my voice; he heard my cry for mercy. Because he turned his ear to me, I will call on him as long as I live._

Diarmuid reaches out with trembling fingers, brushing over the words written across the top of the page. When he lifts them away, he half-expects they might be stained with ink, but--of course. As with all the other gifts, the quality is too fine for that, and they remain unmarred. 

“Ciaran, I believe I may be a fool,” he says, voice faint. 

A hand comes down to rest gently on his shoulder, and when he looks up again, it is to meet Ciaran’s gaze, eyes crinkled fondly at the corners, mouth curved into an amused smile. 

“Certainly you are,” he replies, kindness in his voice despite the harsh words. “But you are fortunate that your brothers and I very much are not.” 

*

It turns out that his brothers had not been counting on Diarmuid taking his vows at all. 

“You have not prepared _anything?_ ” he had asked, incredulous. Cathal, Rua, and Ciaran had all nodded, solemn faces not doing the least to hide the distinct air of amusement hovering over the three of them. 

“We did not expect the courting gifts,” Rua drawled, shrugging philosophically, “nor did we anticipate Sir David returning so hastily. Foolish of us, perhaps, to think you might come to your senses without prompting.” 

“Come to my _senses-”_

“All’s well that end’s well,” Cathal interrupted, cheerful. “You got there eventually, did you not?” 

What they _had_ done, once they had discovered that David had returned, was commision a tailor to prepare an outfit for Diarmuid to wear to the midwinter ball. 

He had protested, of course, wanting to march right up to David’s quarters and demand an explanation. He had rather witheringly been informed that his plan lacked _romance_ , and was an entirely insufficient response to twelve days of being showered in courting gifts, for shame. 

Diarmuid had been unable to rally any arguments to counter that--mostly because it was, rather infuriatingly, true--and before he is entirely aware of it, evening has fallen and he is standing outside the castle's great banquet hall, listening to the cheerful sound of music and lively conversation filter out through the doors, attempting to calm his racing heart. 

The outfit, he will admit, is beautiful. Dark breeches tucked into his new boots, with a sheer black surcoat layered over a crimson tunic made of fine silk, to give the impression of shimmering, shifting burgundy fabric draped over his body. The whole thing is fitted much closer to his form than anything he has worn before, hugging the curves of his thighs and buttocks, the breadth of his shoulders, the muscles in his arms. 

It is far more modest than the many of the outfits Diarmuid has already seen as nobles pass in and out of the hall, wrapped in velvets and silks in every colour of the rainbow, each and every one of them dripping in jewels. The only hint of such excess on Diarmuid’s person is the cuff, gleaming on his wrist, standing out against the understated elegance of his clothing. Still, it is difficult to resist the urge to collect his cloak from the steward who took it, or perhaps run back to the cottage to retrieve his familiar set of loose black robes. 

The doors to the hall open again, light and noise spilling out into the hallway. A rush of glittering nobles pass by the spot where Diarmuid has been hovering anxiously these last few minutes, some of them shooting him curious glances as they go by. 

Those glances, though not hostile, are almost enough to cause him to bolt. He turns to do exactly that, when something catches his attention, out of the corner of his eye. 

A bright flash of silver, noticeable even among the jewel-clad figures of the other guests. A man, tall, with dark hair and eyes, wearing the dress uniform of a commander in the queen's army. Brilliant blue velvet tunic, white breeches, a silver half-cape draped over broad shoulders, gleaming hilt of a sword strapped to his hip. 

_David._

Before Diarmuid realizes it, he is stepping forward, drawn toward that figure inexorably, like the tide rushing toward shore. Diarmuid steps into the hall, then onto the dance floor, slipping past a whirling crush of bodies without a second glance, eyes fixed on David. 

David’s head turns, then, and his gaze lands on Diarmuid. Diarmuid is close enough now that he can see each emotion as it passes over David’s face: surprise, relief, elation. 

Love. 

Diarmuid stops, just a few scant inches from David’s body, and David steps forward, closing the distance between them. 

The dancers flow around them, stepping nimbly out of their way like a river parting around a smooth stone, creating a small bubble of calm just large enough for the two of them. Diarmuid can feel curious eyes on them, of course, but no-one remains nearby for long enough to catch more than a few words of their conversation, and for that he is grateful. 

Diarmuid reaches out a hand, trying his best to keep it from shaking. Relief rushes through him when David’s own hand, warm and so much broader than Diarmuid’s, closes around it.

He can feel the scrape of David’s sword callouses against the skin of his palm. They are not quite a match for Diarmuid’s own, born out of hard work in the garden and out in the pastures, not from weaponry; a complement in form and shape but not in provenance. Diarmuid has spent more time than he would like to admit wondering what they would feel like, and now-

Now he knows. 

He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it, unsure. David waits patiently--always so patient--eyes dark and serious, almost guarded, as they sweep over Diarmuid’s face and trail down to the collar of his tunic. 

He clears his throat, and tries again. “I- I must thank you, for the gifts. I have never had such luxuries; it was very kind.” 

David nods, smiling softly, but makes no move, no other response. Waiting for whatever else Diarmuid has to say. 

“I just… I need you to know- I never would have asked.” He pauses, unsure and embarrassed, a heat under his skin that he can feel from his neck to his hairline. “I did not need... you would have been enough.” 

He swallows, unable to tear his eyes away from David’s. The look on his face… something warm and melting takes up residence under Diarmuid’s breast, seeping outward from his chest to his limbs, all-encompassing. 

“I hope you know that you would have been enough,” he repeats, voice soft. 

David lifts their joined hands, pressing his lips to the back of Diarmuid’s hand, chaste and sweet. Their eyes do not waver from one another--Diarmuid can read David’s reply there, clear as though he had spoken the words aloud. 

David draws Diarmuid forward, then, wrapping an arm around his waist, fitting their bodies snuggly against one another. Diarmuid’s breath catches--their faces are closer like this than he can ever remember them being--but David does not dip his head down. Instead he waits, eyes roaming once again over Diarmuid’s face, searching for his permission. Diarmuid cannot help but give it, pushing down the sudden flutter of nerves in his belly, and nods. 

David smiles, then, and sweeps him away, into a dance.

**Author's Note:**

> not pictured: David's company of himbo knights and comrades in arms spending two months convincing him to go back to the castle and declare his undying love for Diarmuid. 
> 
> thank you all for reading; i'd love to hear from you in the comments if you liked it!


End file.
